


Shared Pain

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Episode Related, Gap Filler, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-17
Updated: 2003-11-17
Packaged: 2018-12-26 20:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12066786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brianâ€™s POV and thoughts after Craig attacks him.  Gapfiller for 108.





	Shared Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

He’s in my arms and I’m once again mesmerized by his youth and beauty, and the awe that’s shining up at me from his eyes. He adores me and I bask in it. I know, I’m shameless, but I can’t help it. He smiles, his teeth flashing white in the barely lit surroundings and whispers something naughty. I have to grin – and whisper back. We kiss, and for a moment it’s almost unreal, for a tiny little moment I forget who I am. Then he lets go of me, and I watch him going around the car, before with an internal sigh, I’m about to open the car, when … 

 

“Hey, you fucking pervert!”

 

WHAM!

 

The fist flies in my face before I can even react. I hear Justin shouting something in the background, but my momentarily battered brain can’t process it. I hear footsteps, and hear my friends shouting, too. 

 

WHAM!

 

This time it’s a foot to my ribs. 

 

Again.

 

And again. 

 

Suddenly hands are on me, and I hear Michael’s voice asking me if I’m alright. Of course I’m not fucking alright. Someone just used me as a punching bag, for God’s sake. I blink and struggle back on my feet, Emmett, Michael, and Ted surrounding me, their hands around me holding me back, while my whole being screams to fight. I want to get away from them, and only when Michael shouts, “it’s his Dad”, do I start to realize what’s going on.

 

Just in time to hear the guy shout, “That’s it, Justin! That is it. You come home with me right now … or you never come home again!”

 

Because his back is to me, I can’t see Justin’s face, but I still see the way his body tenses as if expecting a blow. It’s like a déjà vu. I see myself, looking into the eyes of my father, his blue, mine – not. We’ve never been the same, and only by accident share the same gene pool. 

Does his father know? I wonder, can he know? Does he even care? Care, that his son is hurting, that all he wants is to be accepted and loved? 

 

“Fuck!” I shout, freeing myself from the holding hands and turning away from the scene. I can’t look at it anymore. This is too close to home, and I can’t watch it. Can’t watch seeing another father turning against his own child. 

 

“Never again,” Justin says, and I hate to hear it, but at the same time I’m so fucking proud of him. He’s only seventeen but already stands up against his own father. God, he’s so fucking brave. “Did you hear me?” he screams. “I said, never again!” I can hear his pain, and turn, a hidden force urging me to watch this after all. 

 

“Go!” he shouts. “Get the fuck out of here! I’m never coming home again! Never!” He staggers backwards, his hand blindly searching for the wall as if to steady himself, and his voice breaks, “Fucking never!”

 

Fuck! I’m at his side, feeling completely helpless. I’m not used to comforting people, don’t even know how to do it. “Justin.” I take his arms, and hold them. “Stop.” He sags against me and I hold his trembling body in my arms. For a moment we share the pain, even though he isn’t aware of it. For a moment, we are close. Then I let go of him, and he walks over to the passenger side of the car.

 

***** 

 

“I’m lucky, I still have all my teeth,” I complain, looking at myself in the mirror, “and no black eye.” He stands beside me, watching me with those big eyes, full of guilt. If I were a better man, I’d take him in my arms and tell him it doesn’t matter. But it would be a lie and I’m not a good man. Nothing will make this better. It’s a wound, deep, bleeding. And after it heals, it’ll leave a scar he’s going to carry for life. So instead of saying something profound, something I can’t think of, I give him a quick glance, “How do I look?”

 

“You look great,” he assures me and his voice sounds oddly breathless. Jesus, even his voice is guilty. You didn’t do anything, I want to tell him, but don’t. It wouldn’t matter anyway. At the diner he was maintaining a tough front, he was probably still in shock, and he was acting as if it didn’t matter to him. Ted and Emmett were making fun of it. Those fools. Mikey, of course, could think of nothing but the fact that Craig hit me. He’s an even greater fool. But he can’t understand. I can. God, how I can understand. 

 

I felt that way time and again. So often, for a while it was part of me. And the last time Jack hit me, I swore to myself that he’d never do it again. 

 

Never again.

 

Yes, the same words Justin said to his dad, I told mine. I caught his fist in my palm and looked him square in the eye. Then I told him that if he ever tried to hit me again, I’d do the same. I never had to, because he never tried again, fucking coward that he was. God, yes, I know how Justin feels. 

 

“You always look great,” he says, and his voice trembles. “I’m sorry … for my dad … and everything.” He almost stumbles over the words as he follows me into the kitchen. 

 

“Well, sorry’s bullshit,” is all I can say, knowing that nothing can ease the pain. 

 

He stops at the counter, his eyes huge and dark, “I didn’t mean to cause you any problems … .” He stops, stares at me, and for a moment I wonder if a hug could help. But of course I do nothing of the sort, instead I turn away, then back to him. “Well,” he licks his lips. “I’m gonna go.”

 

He’s almost at the door, when I stop him, “Where?”

 

Again he stops, but doesn’t come back, his body language defensive, as if he’s ready to run. “I dunno … I’ll find some place.”

 

Some place, huh? Shit. I don’t want this, don’t want anyone here, anyone close, but I can’t let this happen to him. It’s like watching it happen to me. No way I can let him walk out of here like this. “Justin.” He turns and looks – lost, somehow. Which he probably is. God damn motherfucker of a father. “You can stay here.” 

 

His eyes widen. In surprise? And hope flickers through them. Automatically he walks towards the bedroom, but I catch his sweater and hold him back. Yes, I can relate to him, but I still don’t want him come to the wrong conclusions. We’re not a couple, or lovers, or anything. Just because we have fun together and share some pain, it doesn’t mean … .“The sofa.” 

 

His shoulders sag and I feel like the worst heel. Doesn’t matter. At least he understands now. I get a blanket and when I return I find him sitting on the table, sniffling. Oh shit. Now he’s crying. Not that I blame him. He went through a lot tonight, but that’s life. Tough. Dealing you shit all the time. Maybe it’s best that way, growing up fast will give you a thick skin and save you from being hurt again. At least that’s what I’m trying to make myself believe. 

 

I look at his head, the blond hair, the sagging shoulders and hand him the blanket, “You’re not crying, are you?”

 

He snorts, and it’s teary. “I’m not some little faggot,” he says, straightening his shoulders, quickly wiping his face. 

 

I give his shoulder a quick squeeze,” No. You’re not.” And he isn’t. “You’re pretty brave actually. Standing up to your father like that.”

 

He looks up and our gazes meet. The honesty and love in his eyes makes my gut clench. “He was hurting you,” he states quietly, as if it explains all. And maybe it does. For him, anyway.

 

“Get some sleep,” I advise, and turn towards the bedroom. I climb up the stairs and know his eyes are following me, that he’s watching me like a hawk. I feel a twinge in my side and press an arm against it, then slip between the sheets, closing my eyes and trying to ignore the eyes boring into my back. 

 

Only seconds later the mattress dips and I feel a weight settle beside me. He’s been very quiet, but his approach didn’t go unnoticed. Slowly I turn around and again our eyes meet. I see the pleading in his, and the guilt, and the fear and wish I could say something profound, something that could help. But because I’m a sorry, selfish son of a bitch, nothing comes to my mind. Instead I simply hold up the sheets and cover him, hoping he’ll get the message. He obviously does, because he settles more comfortably and only minutes later I hear his breathing deepen, telling me he’s fallen asleep.

 

I, on the other hand, lie awake for a long time, thinking about Justin and his father, about Jack and me. Fathers are supposed to love their sons. Mine never did. Never wanted me in the first place. I learned to deal with his rejection early. It made me hard and tough. Justin doesn’t have the advantage. Tonight he looked into the face of his father, a father he thought would love him, and saw a stranger. A man who refused to accept his son for what he is. A faggot. 

 

Fathers are supposed to love their sons. But I can’t help thinking that we all would do so much better without them.


End file.
